No Ending Here
by overtheanvilwestretch
Summary: Katniss is playing a gig and Peeta just wants to keep his best friend moderately sober. Katniss just broke up with her boyfriend and Peeta can't figure out whether he ever even loved his ex. Katniss just wants to play music and Peeta would be content listening to it forever. They both want to find Godot. Here's to one night, the search of one band and an infinite playlist.


Author's Note: I started working on this as a bit of a pet project a while ago. It was an effort to combine my favorite books with one of my favorite movies (and books, really). This is obviously going to be super OOC/AU but it should be a good time nonetheless. I don't have the rights to either THG or N&N. Big ups to the folks who do, though. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a single song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist." <strong>_

–_**Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist**_

My phone rings again and I toss it onto my bed.

It's not the name I want popping up on the LCD, so as I've done for the past two weeks, I let it go to my already-full voicemail. When it stops vibrating (I've long since turned my ringtone off. Hearing _our_ song play every time I get a call is quickly driving me to the brink of insanity.), I push my desk chair away from my computer and pick it back up.

I toss it back and forth between my hands like its on fire. No matter how agonizing the painful reality of being ignored is; I'd rather have the thing nearby just in case he calls me back.

As if the 150 messages I've left him aren't incentive enough.

The ding of my laptop brings me back to the task at hand: finishing the most recent in a stream of mix cd's that I've been dropping off at Cato's door since our 'breakup'. This, the girls have wasted no time or opportunity to remind me, has turned yours truly into a real. fucking. creep.

Not that I need that. This gnawing feeling in my gut has become all-too familiar and all-too embarrassing. I'd give anything to kick it.

A chorus of hoops and hollers erupt from outside of my window and I immediately know who it is. I glance back at the clock on my computer, and it's just now hitting 3:30. Which means Jo, Madge and most-likely Gale have had enough time to blow off their final free period and hop in Gale's beat up VW van for a joy ride to my house.

I wish I could say I hadn't expected them to show up after my "sick day".

"Hey, Bitch!" I remind myself that it's not an insult. Johanna spews these curses as assertions, not assumptions. I hitch up my window and look down at the gang. Gale has managed to park half in my driveway and 100% on my mother's garbage cans; Madge sits cross-legged on the roof of the van packing a pipe and Jo hollers from her position directly under my window.

"You need to haul ass, Catnip." Gale hushes Johanna and explains for her, "We got a gig in the city and you know how she gets when I try to speed." He flicks his thumb in the direction of the van. The old thing has been faithful to all of the men in the Hawthorne family since the 70's, but the poor thing only has so much in her at this point.

I look down at my phone. Still nothing.

"You know, I'm not really feeling it tonight. That's why I took a 'sick day'… because I'm sick?" I zip up the oversized grey Rutgers hoodie I'm wearing and stuff my hands into the pockets.

"You know what I'm sick of? You acting like a fucking sad sack. Come on. We're opening up for Templesmith. The crowd is gonna be wicked as hell and their drummer has a fantastic set of tits, if I do say so myself." I roll my eyes at Jo's usual erratic behavior.

Our band has been playing shows in the city since our sophomore year and between Jo and Gale (and sometimes Madge too, who doesn't believe in 'binary sexuality', whatever that means), we've never left a show without a female guest or two stuffed in the back seat. They have magnificent pull, I must admit.

Jo pulls a cig from her back pocket and lights it. "And besides, word on the street is that Godot is in the city tonight." She comments between puffs, shooting me a look that says she knows just the mention of my favorite band is enough to get me to circumnavigate the globe.

I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that though.

"Kat, please join us. It would be ever-so-delightful to have you." Madge's light voice drifts from her position on top of the van as she stubs out the last of her smoke.

"And it's not like we can't do anything without our fucking lead singer, so…" Gale cracks his knuckles in annoyance like he always does when things aren't going his way.

The two of us have known each other longer than I've known anyone else in the band. We met in third grade music class. Gale was always a show-off, trying to prove to everyone –including our teacher- that he was better at percussion than anyone in the room. He was the cockiest nine year old I ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Percussion had, in fact, only been one unit, but there was no questioning whether or not the kid was gifted. At that age I swore than no one would ever best Sheila E, the rhythmic genius behind some of Prince's best work (as my father took every opportunity to remind me). But to 9-year-old me, Gale was pretty damn close.

So one day at lunch, I walked up to his empty table and talked to him about it; about where he learned to play and who he listened to and whether or not he wanted to do this music thing forever. I had never been more eloquent than in those conversations between the two of us, talking about the one thing we understood better than all else.

We'd been sitting together ever since.

Jo and Madge came along in junior high, when we were forced to chose a musical specialty. I had wanted to just do concert choir, because singing had always been my passion, but my dad convinced me to join Jazz band instead.

He said "Nobody has to teach you how to sing, little bird. You already got that. What you feel in here," he pointed to my heart, "has to be reflected right here," he pointed to a piece of sheet music, "And playing an instrument can teach you to do that."

We picked up a used electric-acoustic guitar the very next day.

Madge was the reluctant but brilliant pianist, turned keyboardist and Jo took an immediate liking to the bass. Thus Victor's Suicide was born.

I mean, we didn't start off as Victor's Suicide. We started off as Transatlanticism, after Madge's favorite Death Cab album (which didn't stick because she was the only one who could spell it and Gale couldn't even say it); then we became Public Radio (which made no sense because none of us listened to NPR and our music would _never _make it on their air waves), then we were Funnel Cakes & Big Mistakes, Angst Pancakes (we had a foodie phase), Amanda Huginkiss, Inglewood Shakeup, The United States of Slaymerica, Seal of Disapproval, FACE (don't even ask), and last month we settled on VS.

Couldn't tell you where it came from, but like most of our names thus far, it didn't need to make sense for us to agree on it.

We've been playing gigs for three years, only in the last one did it become more serious, though. We were getting booked in decent venues, making a little money on the side. Something Gale and I, above and against all else, really needed to do.

Madge slides off of the roof; her billowy floral kimono and maxi dress fluttering around her as those bare feet hit my driveway. She casually strolls towards Gale and Jo.

"Katniss, the Earth says we must give thanks for her gifts. Not waste them in our pools of self doubt."

Jo rolls her eyes and steps in front of Madge. "What Woodstock Barbie here is trying to say is stop crying and get your ass to the city by 5:30, okay?"

The reality is, I have to get out of this room. My mom is always saying that I need to redecorate. And for the first time in years, I actually agree with her.

The vintage band posters, thrifted hair band tour tees and old photos of Cato and I that are currently tacked to every spare inch of wall and ceiling space reeked of a life I retired from ages ago. At least, it seems like ages ago.

I look down at my phone one more time before shoving it into the back pocket of my jeans. Why the hell not?

"Okay," I sigh and start to push my window back down, "but I'm driving my own car."

* * *

><p>I've always hated this school. Between it's horrible uniforms and pretentious people, I've been counting down the moments until we graduate since I was in the 6th grade.<p>

St. Anthony's Preparatory prides itself on being the answer to Englewood's upper class, the sons of the rich and the reprehensible. And as we near closer to prom time -the theoretical rite of passage that we share with our female counterpart, Our Mother of Holiness- the more palpable the excitement becomes. And since I go to a school full of dudes, the testosterone is manifesting itself in some pretty gross ways lately.

Jude Harrison has been taking his shirt off for no reason and doing sets of pushups in the hallways. Marvel Hodges, our class president, has been forcing pep sessions on the student body for weeks. And the worst of all, my unspoken but sworn enemy, Cato Bishop has been bragging about this girl in Hoboken that he hit and quit so he didn't have to bring to the dance. It's bad enough that he is the hulking example of everything wrong with Prep School (and humanity, honestly), but to add insult to injury, his girl has the best taste in music I've ever scene.

She's such a class act. She's been making him these great mixes since they broke up (or since he dumped her but hasn't had the decency to let her know), that he just casually leaves laying around school: on his desk after classes, in front of the senior lockers, that sort of thing. Me, being the humanitarian I am, started picking them up in an effort to save her reputation (but also to keep Cato from looking like the Big Man who screwed over this chick, thus adding to his endless list of popular guy credentials).

I made the mistake of listening to one though, and haven't been able to stop. It's been two months.

The volume on my headphones is turned all the way up this afternoon, playing one of mystery-girl's mixes, to drown out the remnants of pep session band noise drifting from the gym.

We're technically dismissed for the afternoon, though, so the hallways are starting to fill up. A couple of guys I know from the wrestling team stop by my locker for a quick fist bump on their way out to the parking lot; Andy Garrison and Kevin Collins are shoving each other into walls, and my best friend is lifting me off the ground and shouting something into my face before I can process what is actually going on.

I saw his blur of copper hair and smelled his Drakkar Noir before I even recognized that it was him. Finnick Odair is nothing if not grandiose, though. I pull the headphones out of my ears as he sets me back on the ground, his bright smile never wavering.

"Did you hear me, Peet? This is a big night for us!" He shouts, waving his hands in the air.

Finnick and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. Our mom's were in the same Lemaze classes and I was never able to shake him. Anyways, in all of our years together, Finn has never been one for subtlety. If he is going to do anything, he is going to do it one hundred percent.

"Dude, chill out," I start with a laugh, pulling my AP Chem book from my locker and dropping it into my backpack. "What is going on? Did Abernathy fall asleep at the Bunsen Burner again?"

He rolls his eyes and throws an arm over my shoulder, guiding us towards the doors. "No way, Mellark. This is even better than that. Godot is going to be in the city tonight."

I stop where we stand and turn to him with wide eyes. "Stop lying to me, man. If you're lying to me I swear-"

"Peet, I would never lie about Godot! I'm serious. Look, WCDR just tweeted one of their lyrics. They're totally performing tonight. We have to go out."

I know that my skepticism is obvious. One, because a cryptic tweet doesn't necessitate a performance. Two, because if we're going to the city, that meant a night of drunken shenanigans on Finn's part and a night of babysitting on mine. And three, because I haven't wanted to go back to the city since my last breakup- especially not to a show.

"I've thought about all of those complaints, man, and I'm telling you it's not an issue tonight. This is gonna be great. Trust me. And the connects we got at Babel could get me booze. Which is the whole point." Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

"Oh, look at this! What's up, Asswipes?" The two of us turn around and none other than Cato Bishop stands in front of us. "You guys going to see that lame emo band tonight?" Finnick actually shakes up with him, the two of them throwing an arm around each other quickly.

"Whatever Dickwad, you're jealous because we're getting into Babel for free tonight and your ugly ass is gonna have to pay a cover charge." For the first time in the conversation Cato looks over at me, a condescending smile creeping across his face.

"Yeah well, not all of us are lucky enough to be a Mellark now are we?" My shoulders tense as I clench and unclench my knuckles.

"Yeah well, not all of us are three year seniors but that hasn't seemed to discourage you from claiming the record."

Finnick laughs, not without a hint of discomfort, and punches him in the arm, before I have a witty reply.

"Aw now, play nice, fellas. You're both sexy beasts." Always armed with a flamboyant response, Finn placates the both of us. Cato punches him back, probably a little harder than necessary.

It always goes this way when we run into Cato. The two of them were doubles partners on the tennis team at their parents' country club a few summers back and he'd been permeating my social circle ever since. "Fuck this, I gotta get going anyway. Dad is getting the Range Rover serviced this weekend so I'll be driving the Benz into town tonight."

He crosses his arms over his steroid-infused chest. "You know I can't resist those daddy-issues types that hang around those shows. Maybe I'll see you two."

Not even Cato was going to be enough to keep us from finding Godot.

* * *

><p>Jo changed in the back of the van on the way to the gig, Madge tells me, as I look at her new outfit.<p>

She's wearing what used to be a flannel shirt, cut into a crop top and tied directly under her bra line. As for pants, she's wearing a pair of boyfriend jeans, which have become more rips than fabric at this point. Her hair, which is currently shaved on one side, crisp and angular, frames her slim face well. Before we perform I'm tempted to remind her that by the time we find Godot tonight we'll be lucky if its 50 degrees outside, but I don't. If I know anything about Johanna, she'll be gone long before then. It never takes her long to find her prey for the evening.

I pull the strap of my guitar over my head and set it on the stand. We've just finished our sound check and are set to go on in a few. I can already tell that I'm going to need a minute to myself before we start.

"Whatever, Jo, I'm just saying you look a little like a lumberjack prostitute. Not that there's anything wrong with that." Gale comments as he tucks his sticks into his back pocket with a smirk. Watching his good-natured ribbing between the two of them is usually one of my favorite pass times. Tonight, its just too much for me.

"Alright, let's give it a break, guys. I'm gonna grab a drink before we start. You guys want anything?"

Jo and Gale look up from their spat and Madge just shakes her head slowly.

"I'll take a vodka tonic," Gale comments, leaning down to adjust his bass.

"I'll take a rum and coconut water," Jo smirks and reties her shirt, leaving her pretty exposed to the quickly gathering audience.

I roll my eyes at the two of them. They barely want to serve us anyway; they only offer us drinks to placate us for playing on the cheap. "So… You guys'll take room temperature Pabst from behind the bar? Great."

I dodge my way through the crowd, people that weren't there for our sound check moments before already gathering in front of the stage. Our audiences were usually pretty receptive at this venue. And the main act, Templesmith, would draw a pretty big crowd, so all we really have to do is keep them warmed up.

I couldn't handle a night with a ton of pressure today. I'm not in my best form. Not only am I feeling emotionally drained but I didn't even bother dressing up for the show. Not that I ever go all out like Johanna or even Madge, but I generally try harder than this.

I look down at my "FRANKIE SAYS RELAX" tee, black skinny jeans, cutoff denim vest and black chucks and shrug. I just have to get in and get out. I need this today. I need this boost.

I get to the bar and wave Darius over. He's one of my favorite bartenders at The Hob. He flirts just enough and never asks too many questions when I look upset.

"Two PBR's for Gale and Jo and a bottle of water for me," I smile halfheartedly at the redhead and he disappears under the bar to produce the drinks. "Thanks, D."

"Anything for my favorite Everdeen," he winks and I slip away, cracking open the water as I move. I didn't drink, not even on a good day, but I could never understand how the three of them managed to perform under the influence. I needed clear headspace to perform. The stage was probably the only place I understood these days.

Before I make it back to the stage, someone's shoulder rams right into mine causing me to spill some of my water down the front of my shirt.

"Oh wow, I'm so sorry!" I look down at my white tee, which is quickly becoming more see-through. He reaches forward to wipe off the excess water with his bare hand, grazing my boobs in the process.

"Uh…" I start, finally bothering to make eye contact with the kid who was skyrocketing into my second-least favorite human in New York City. I almost wish I hadn't. His eyes alone are enough to make me want to forget and forgive the whole incident. They're this ungodly shade of blue, and his eyelashes are almost too long and perfect to belong to a dude. "Listen, it's all good, seriously-"

"No way, I… That was a total accident. I don't want you to think I go around running this spill-your-drinks game on unsuspecting women just to cop a quick feel," he runs his hand though his hair, pushing his blond curls back from his forehead. He pushes that same hand out to me. "I-"

"Catnip! Let's go! We have a show to do!" Gale shouts from the front, effectively cutting off the kids groveling and saving us both from further embarrassment.

"Like I said, don't worry about it." I flashed him a quick smile. "Gotta go."

Back on stage, I toss Gale and Jo their drinks. Gale quickly pops his open and downs the whole thing, settling himself into his stool. Jo sets hers off to the side, adjusts the strap on her bass and plucks a few quick notes. "No time to get my buzz going before we start. Better play good, sweetheart, cause I'm most certainly gonna need to follow tonight. Nice tatas, by the way. Have a little spill?"

"I don't know any other way, Jo." I smile in her direction, perhaps my first real one all night. This is it. ""And yeah. Lucky I wore my good bra tonight." I looked back over my shoulder, "Madgey you ready?"

She flashes me a thumbs up and finds her position behind her keyboard. We have a rhythm before a show, an energy that is so uniquely us that I know this is exactly where we're supposed to be.

Madge, as usual, is as mellow as someone in our line of work could possibly be. Gale has this tension that sets in, right before he counts us in that reminds me how important this is for him. For _us_. I can feel it, no matter where I am on stage. It's just one of the side effects of knowing one another for as long as we have, I suppose. And Jo, well Jo gets really wired, really zoned in. And the energy comes together just right, I know it's going to be a good show.

"Hi. I'm Katniss Everdeen and we're Victors Suicide."

I hear the clicks of Gale's sticks. One. Two. One. Two. Three. Four.

There is no good way for me to describe what it feels like to be on stage. There is the obvious, like the feeling of Jo's bass thumping and Gale's drums dictating the beat. Those musical things are obvious.

It's everything else.

It's the in-between moments that make performing a high nothing Madge has ever taken could possibly compare to. There's energy to every night, every person jumping up and down in time with the music. There's energy in every lyric that gets sung back to me while I belt it from behind the mic. Here, on this stage, I am invincible. With my best friends behind me and my guitar in my hands, I am unstoppable. I am not the girl that got dumped. I am not the fatherless, nameless, mostly pop punk but occasionally queercore band chick.

Up here, on this stage, I am Katniss Everdeen: girl on fire.

* * *

><p>The band they have opening for Templesmith is good. Their lead singer is great. Better than great, even. She's brilliant.<p>

From the moment I crashed into her, I knew that there was something about her worth paying attention to. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, beginning around the front of her head and ending just below her shoulder blades. Her eyes, when they met mine, had been gunmetal grey. Heart-stoppingly grey. Something about her, though, past her incredible voice and beautiful eyes and caramel skin, was enough to make it hard for me to take my eyes off of her during their performance.

I'd known her for all of a half hour and had already felt more enthralled than I had in a year and a half of dating Delly. It was an unsettling feeling.

And I'd all but ruined her outfit without the opportunity to apologize before she'd run off.

"Bro! You're literally eye-fucking the lead singer right now!" Finnick shouts during their set. I snap my head in his direction and laugh. "Don't give me that look, Mellark! You guys are totally into something right now."

The music is loud enough to keep anyone else from hearing what he's saying, the band –Victors Suicide, I remember- playing arguably their most bass thumping song of the night. Katniss is wailing, really ripping it up on the guitar, while the bassist kills some background vocals.

"No way, man, I think her and the drummer have something going on! Look at the way he's staring at her!" I reply, nodding to the guy behind her. Its been gnawing at me since they started performing. Not that it should have. I didn't even know her.

Soon enough, the band finishes their set and announces Templesmith. Not that the audience wasn't stoked for them, of course, but everyone goes crazy then. This was just one of many stops tonight for people searching for Godot and hopefully we'd find some kind of clue while we waited.

Finnick pulls a flask out of his pocket, takes a sip and shakes his head at me. I'm about 5'10" on a good day, and Finn is an unnaturally handsome 6'3" every day. Which gives him just enough height to look down at me like he's doing now, with that all-knowing tall guy smirk.

"Peety, you can't lie to me," he loosely waves his index finger around before pointing it at his own chest. "But since you're trying, I'm gonna go talk to that red-head in the corner," he brings his mouth down to my ear and whisper shouts, "I think she's in-ter-est-eddddd!"

I smile and give him a quick slap on the back. "Alright. Try not to get into too much trouble. I'll be at the bar if you need me."

I start towards an empty stool near the center of the bar. The venue, The Hob, is on the nicer end of the shithole spectrum. Everything that's not refurbished steel is made of wood, covered in drunken Bic initial and expletive carvings. It always has this smell of aged vomit and cheap beer. But it's also everything good about the scene; great music, cool people, prime location so we keep coming back.

"Well look what we have here!" I place the voice before I even turn to see the person responsible for the hand currently on my shoulder. "Little Mellark finally having a night out?"

I turn and force a semi-pleased expression. "Hey, Cato. Wasn't expecting to see you here."

Cato throws an arm around the petite blonde standing next to him. She looks sweet enough, all gentle smiles and subtle curves, dwarfed by his abrasiveness. "Yup. Thought I'd bring my girl here out for the night. This is Amber. She goes to NYU."

I put my hand up in a little wave. I'm looking for any way to get out of this interaction. Generally Finnick is my Cato buffer, but one look to the wall on my right tells me that he's pretty tied up with the redhead. "Nice to meet you, Amber."

"You know, Mellark, you should seriously try dating college girls. You could _at least _get one of those City College chicks. That's when they get really into how smart you are and shit, not just who your daddy is."

I clench and unclench my fists at my side, trying everything in my power not to shrink down to how small I feel. Somehow, every conversation with Cato goes this way. And I always walk away with a sense that I lost something. Dignity, maybe? Pride, definitely.

"Thanks for the tip but I actually came here with my girlfriend."

He looks around, an amused smile plastered to his smug face. "You did, did you? Well I'd love to meet her later. I bet she's a _real _catch."

"Oh yeah, maybe you will. I guess we'll see you around." I nod goodbye to Amber, who doesn't seem to have either heard anything Cato said or be at all bothered by it. I wonder if she would care if she knew the things he said about his last girlfriend.

I make a beeline to where I'd originally planned on sitting, though someone else has already occupied the seat. A girl, who, from behind looks like-

"You come to spill something else on me?" My heart stops dead in my chest until she turns all the way around to look at me. "I'm kidding. Relax."

A good-natured smile is on her face, much better than the contempt that I'd originally guessed. I'm tempted to wipe the sweat that I'm almost sure has formed off of my forehead.

"Hey," I start with a nervous laugh, "I really am sorry about that. Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?"

She grabs the fresh bottle of water in front of her and gives it a little shake, as though I didn't notice it there before. "I'm good. Thanks." Katniss turns back towards the wooden bar and waves a guy over. "How about I get you one instead? You don't look so good."

"Katniss, I'm really fine," I start, wanting now more than ever to melt into the floor, "Its just really hot in here and I just ran into somehow I really can't stand, so I'm not at my best."

In my periphery, I notice Cato and his girl staring in our direction, that same smirk from before turned almost vicious. His eyebrows are up to his hairline when I finally make eye contact. He doesn't believe me. He doesn't believe that I could have actually come out with a girl tonight.

It's this thought, I realize, that drives me to reach for Katniss and gently spin her barstool in my direction. I can feel the pulse of the speakers playing old Green Day underneath my feet; the bodies of an audience waiting for the next act brush up against my back. I can feel just the slightest tremble from the shoulder underneath my hand.

Her look is one of confusion mixed with fear.

And if I let myself believe it, just the slightest hint of intrigue.

"Katniss," I muster up as much courage as I can and try to disguise the waver in my voice.

"Will you be my girlfriend for five minutes?"


End file.
